“Eesee. Osee, Icksee, Ann,
Fullson, Follson, Orson, Cann.”
Dard made an effort and pushed the rhythm out of his mind—no time now to “see” the pattern in that. Why did he always “see” words mentally arranged in the up and down patterns of lines? That was as much a part of him as his delight in color, texture, sight and sound. And for the past three years Lars had encouraged him to work upon it, setting him problems of stray lines of old poetry.
“Yes, that sings, Dessie,” Lars was agreeing now. “I heard you humming it this morning. And there is a reason why Dard must make us a pattern—” he broke off abruptly and Dard did not try to question him.
They ate silently, ladling the hot stuff into them, lifting the dishes to drink the last drops. But they lingered over the spicy mint drink, feeling its warmth sink into their starved, chilled bodies. The light given out by the fire was meager; only now and again did it reach Lars’ face, and shadows were thick in the corners of the room. Dard made no move to light the greased fagot supported by the iron loop above the table. He was too tired and listless. But Dessie rounded the table and leaned against Lars’ crooked shoulder.
“You promised—the word game,” she reminded him.
“Yes— the game—”
With a sigh Dard stooped to pick up a charred stick from the hearth. But he was sure now about the suppressed excitement in his brother’s voice. With the blackened wood for a pencil and the table top for his writing pad he waited.
“Suppose we try your verse now, Dessie,” Lars suggested.
“Repeat it slowly so Dard can work out the pattern.”